Ha! So long, suckers! That’d take some repairing! Worth an overnight attempt at a delivery to Pseudopolis, maybe? He’d talk to the coachmen. It wasn’t as if they’d ever paid the Post Office for their damn coaches. And it wouldn’t matter if the clacks got repaired in time, either, because the Post Office would have made the effort. The clacks company was a big bully, sacking people, racking up the charges, demanding lots of money for bad service. The Post Office was the underdog, and an underdog can always find somewhere soft to bite.
Carefully, he eased more of the blanket under him. Various organs were going numb.
The towering fumes of Ankh-Morpork were falling far behind. Sto Lat was visible between Boris’s ears, a plume of lesser smokes. The tower disappeared astern and already Moist could see the next one. He’d ridden more than a third of the way in twenty minutes, and Boris was still eating up the ground.
About halfway between the cities was an old stone tower, all that remained of a heap of ruins surrounded by woodland. It was almost as high as a clacks tower and Moist wondered why they hadn’t simply used it as one. It was probably too derelict to survive in a gale under the weight of the shutters, he thought. The area looked bleak, a piece of weedy wilderness in the endless fields.
If he’d had spurs, Moist would have spurred Boris on at this point, and would probably have been thrown, trampled and eaten for his pains.* Instead, he lay low over the horse’s back and tried not to think about what this ride was doing to his kidneys.
* Which would have been agonizing.
Time passed.
The second tower went by, and Boris dropped into a canter. Sto Lat was clearly visible now; Moist could make out the city walls and the turrets of the castle.
He’d have to jump off; there was no other way. Moist had tried out half a dozen scenarios as the walls loomed, but nearly all of them involved haystacks. The one that didn’t was the one where he broke his neck.
But it didn’t seem to occur to Boris to turn aside. He was on a road, the road was straight, it went through this gateway and Boris had no problem with that. Besides, he wanted a drink.
The city streets were crowded with things that couldn’t be jumped or trampled, but there was a horse trough. He was only vaguely aware of something falling off his back.
Sto Lat wasn’t a big city. Moist had once spent a happy week there, passing a few dud bills, pulling off the Indigent Heir trick twice and selling a glass ring on the way out, not so much for the money as out of a permanent fascination with human deviousness and gullibility.
Now he staggered up the steps of the town hall, watched by a crowd. He pushed open the doors and slammed the mailbag on the desk of the first clerk he saw.
‘Mail from Ankh-Morpork,’ he growled. ‘Started out at nine, so it’s fresh, okay?’
‘But it’s only just struck a quarter past ten! What mail?’
Moist tried not to get angry. He was sore enough as it was.
‘See this hat?’ he said, pointing. ‘You see it? That means I’m the Postmaster General of Ankh-Morpork! This is your mail! In an hour I’m going back again, understand? If you want mail delivered to the big city by two p.m.— Ouch. Make that three p.m. – then put it in this bag. These,’ he waved a wad of stamps under the young man’s nose, ‘are stamps! Red ones tuppence, black ones a penny. It’ll cost ten – ow – eleven pence per letter, got it? You sell the stamps, you give me the money, you lick the stamps and put them on the letters! Express Delivery guaranteed! I’m making you Acting Postmaster for an hour. There’s an inn next door. I’ve going to find a bath. I want a cold bath. Really cold. Got an ice house here? As cold as that. Colder. Ooooh, colder. And a drink and a sandwich and by the way there’s a big black horse outside. If your people can catch him, please put a saddle on him and a cushion and drag him round to face Ankh-Morpork. Do it!’
It was only a hip bath, but at least there was an ice house in the city. Moist sat in a state of bliss amongst the floating ice, drinking a brandy, and listened to the commotion outside.
After a while there was a knock at the door, and a male voice enquired: ‘Are you decent, Mr Postmaster?’
‘Thoroughly decent, but not dressed,’ said Moist. He reached down beside him and put his winged hat on again. ‘Do come in.’
The mayor of Sto Lat was a short, bird-like man, who’d either become mayor very recently and immediately after the post had been held by a big fat man, or thought that a robe that trailed several feet behind you and a chain that reached to the waist was the look for civic dignitaries this year.
‘Er . . . Joe Camels, sir,’ he said nervously. ‘I’m the mayor here . . .’
‘Really? Good to meet you, Joe,’ said Moist, raising his glass. ‘Excuse me if I don’t get up.’
‘Your horse, er, has run away after kicking three men, I’m sorry to say.’
‘Really? He never usually does that,’ said Moist.
‘Don’t worry, sir, we’ll catch him, and anyway we can let you have a horse to get back on. Not as fast, though, I dare say.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Moist, easing himself into a new position amongst the floating ice. ‘That’s a shame.’
‘Oh, I know all about you, Mr Lipwig,’ said the mayor, winking conspiratorially. ‘There were some copies of the Times in the mailbag! A man who wants to be up and doing, you are. A man full of vim, you are! A man after my own heart, you are! You aim for the moon, you do! You see your target and you go for it hell for leather, you do! That’s how I does business, too! You’re a go-getter, just like me! I’d like you to put it here, sir!’
‘What where?’ said Moist, stirring uneasily in his rapidly-becoming-lukewarm tub. ‘Oh.’ He shook the proffered hand. “What is your business, Mr Camels?’
‘I make parasols,’ said the mayor. ‘And it’s about time that clacks company was told what’s what! It was all fine up until a few months ago – I mean, they made you pay through the nose but at least stuff got where it was going fast as an arrow, but now it’s all these breakdowns and repairs and they charge even more, mark you! And they never tell you how long you’re going to be waiting, it’s always “very shortly”. They’re always “sorry for the inconvenience” – they even got that written on a sign they hang up on the office! As warm and human as a thrown knife, just like you said. So you know what we just done? We went round to the clacks tower in the city and had a serious word with young Davey, who’s a decent lad, and he gave us back all the overnight clacks for the big city that never got sent. How about that, eh?’
‘Won’t he get into trouble?’
‘He says he’s quitting anyway. None of the boys like the way the company’s run now. They’ve all been stamped for you, just like you said. Well, I’ll let you get dressed, Mr Lipwig. Your horse is ready.’ He stopped at the door. ‘Oh, just one thing, sir, about them stamps . . .’
‘Yes? Is there a problem, Mr Camels?’ said Moist.
‘Not as such, sir. I wouldn’t say anything against Lord Vetinari, sir, or Ankh-Morpork’ – said a man living within twenty miles of a proud and touchy citizenry – ‘but, er, it doesn’t seem right, licking . . . well, licking Ankh-Morpork stamps. Couldn’t you print up a few for us? We’ve got a Queen, nice girl. She’d look good on a stamp. We’re an important city, you know!’
‘I’ll see what I can do, Mr Camels. Got a picture of her, by any chance?’
They’ll all want one, he thought, as he got dressed. Having your own stamps could be like having your own flag, your own crest. It could be big! And I bet I could do a deal with my friend Mr Spools, oh yes. Doesn’t matter if you haven’t got your own post office, you’ve got to have your own stamp . . .
An enthusiastic crowd saw him off on a horse which, while no Boris, did his best and seemed to know what reins were for. Moist gratefully accepted the cushion on the saddle, too. That added more glitter to the glass: he’d ridden so hard he needed a cushion!